


Conversation

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mute noctis, mute character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-04 05:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14013081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: Nyx knew that he would never know what Noctis’ voice sounded like.





	1. Chapter 1

The rumours around the kingdom were that the Crown Prince hadn't spoken in just over twelve years. That the traumas of the attack that had nearly killed him— of the fires that had destroyed the heart of Tenebrae— had left the prince wounded and mute in the towers of the Citadel. The rumours that the king had kept his son close since they had returned home to the fortified Insomnia had been fuelled by the rare public appearances the prince was involved in, in the public statements delivered by the boy training to be his advisor— eloquent and scripted, while the prince stood by solemnly. Shyly.

The silence of the prince was blamed on his fear, his pains, speculations that the attack had done more damage than was really shown to the public. Nyx had heard every variation of the rumour at one point; he had looked for scars on the boy’s throat during his shifts in the towers, had tried to listen in on lessons when the boy was meant to respond to his tutors and chosen friend. He had watched the twelve years since the prince ’s return to the Citadel trudge along in silence, with the only childish voice filling the halls being that of the young Ignis Scientia as he took on a new role for his royal friend. 

At first, Nyx had felt sorry for the prince. He had thought, like others, that Prince Noctis was hurt, or shy, or that there was something sullen and dark lurking beneath the surface now. Libertus had told them about similar cases among the refugees— of children treated like damaged dolls because they had lost their voices somewhere along the way. 

Then Nyx actually spoke to the prince. 

Or at him, really. Before he understood that the prince had learnt a language of his own.

There had been concerns, as time went on, as the prince grew, that his silence would be a weakness to the kingdom. That appearances and orders could not be given through a proxy, like Ignis. That the Shield was meant to be the silent shadow at the king’s side, and the king was meant to be eloquent and outspoken. 

Silence was seen as weak. 

Nyx decided that was because no one actually tried to listen to Noctis before. 

“Good morning, little star.”

The look the nickname earned him was the reason Nyx never dropped it from his greetings. Even Ignis had stopped protesting it years ago, when they were both still young. 

Noctis was silent, but expressive. 

Nyx fell into step next to the prince, and smiled to the ever-present Ignis. 

“You're stuck with me again, today.” Nyx offered a grin in response to the questioning look. “Don’t give me that look, I'm not telling you what I did this time.”

It wasn't ’t a punishment to work within the Citadel for him. To stand guard at the prince’s side while the young Shield was away. It wasn't a punishment shift to watch the way the two boys worked together in the royal duties, with diplomats and visitors alike missing the little gestures that signified Noctis’ annoyance or interest. He preferred to watch the was Noctis schooled his features while Ignis spoke the script for him; to see the little looks shared with King Regis when some supplicant was annoying either of them, or asking for the impossible. He preferred to keep his eyes on the way the young man the prince had become stood with such confidence by his father’s side, despite taking the first opportunity to bolt from the cavernous throne room or stuffy conference rooms. 

He watched Noctis for the same little cues and tells that Ignis had trained to anticipate. Even if he didn't approve of the pointed looks that would have him dismissed for a few hours. 

“Yes, yes,” Ignis muttered as he gathered a familiar notebook before leaving them alone; “I’ll fetch you for dinner, Noct.”

Nyx could see whole conversations Noctis wanted to have. Whole phrases and expressions contained behind the shield of silence the prince had adopted in his childhood. There were familiar gestures and a language behind the movements in Noctis ’ hands, that Nyx was only now learning, but Ignis was fluent in. A language that the king had learnt for his son, but never seemed to stretch out beyond the Citadel. 

In the quiet of the prince’s rooms, Nyx had to slow the flurry of gestures and expressions down to keep up with the prince. “Hey, easy you little chatterbox. All I got from that was that you had a new game.”

The impatient roll of bright blue eyes was far more familiar to him. And Nyx grinned as Noctis dragged him over to actually see the new video game for himself. As the prince sat him down and took him through the controls, just as eager as any other young man to show off some new interest. Nyx knew there was a story behind these games that had Noctis enthralled for years. But he only knew it in the tidbits picked up here and there. 

“I ever tell you that it's weird you like a game about assassins killing political figures?”

The gesture to ’shut up and play’ was another familiar one. And Nyx didn't hesitate to tease Noctis with a kiss to his cheek. “What if I don't want to play, little star?”

Nyx knew that he would never know what Noctis’ voice sounded like. He knew that Ignis would always be there to interpret for the people who didn't want to learn how to speak to Noctis. To understand him. 

But he knew what Noctis’ smile was like, and the quick mind behind the flurry of movements when the prince wanted something. He knew how demanding the prince could be, and how independent he was on principle. Nyx knew, that Noctis spoke in his own way, asked for things, demanded things, in his own way. He knew what it was like to have a lap full of Noctis, and to be at the prince’s curious mercy while consent was asked through careful looks and touches. 

Nyx had learnt the prince’s signs for ’want’ first, usually followed by kisses and smiles. 

The sign for ’love’ came after. And it varied depending on Noctis’ mood. 

He also knew how to spot a question in those movements, and could only ever offer up a smile while his hold on Noct tightened. 

“Yes, of course,” Nyx would matter against Noctis’ lips, hands caught together to keep the prince from doubting. “Of course I love you, little star.”


	2. Chapter 2

There was a language in the beads that Noctis was still learning. There were subtle cues and changes and adjustments made to each colour that Noctis had yet to master. But he liked to learn; to lean against Nyx as the Glaive worked on his own language. As the Glaive prepared the host of non-verbal cues that would dictate his status and standing in the Galahdian community for those among the refugees who still honoured those traditions from their hometowns and islands. 

There were mornings where Noct watched Nyx work the beads into his hair and reset the braids with a careful precision. When their eyes met as Nyx faced the mirror and his questioning look was met with a wolfish grin. Mornings in the small apartment buried deep in the city and out of sight of the Citadel, or in the more spacious apartments Noct had managed to charm himself into despite his father’s reservations. In Noctis’ own apartments, Nyx had taken to keeping doors open to share the rooms, to keep an eye on Noctis’ expressions and gestures. 

“Like what you see, little star?”

The sign language Noctis had learnt hadn’t been enough to communicate freely with others who couldn’t be bothered to learn the same. So he had introduced new signs, with Ignis’ help. He had developed signs that he thought were universal and simple, enough to prove to those who refused to learn to communicate with him that he was still very much aware of what was being said. 

Nyx always seemed to either catch on quickly, or it was like talking to a cute wall. 

Noctis imitated the movements of Nyx’s hands along the braids, and repeated the questioning look. He could see the moment in Nyx’s reflection where the question made sense— where the connection happened. 

“You’re either asking me what the braids are for, kitten. Or you want some in your hair.”

Noctis rolled his eyes; it was a close enough translation. 

Braids done, Nyx returned to to the bed where Noctis waited for him. “Okay, what did I miss?”

Noctis reached out to the beads, to tug on the now-tight plaits and woven style Nyx had always favoured. He let his fingers slip from one to the other, and quickly offered his sign for speaking— the questioning look returned. Noctis thought his question was clear— he thought he had made every aspect of communication simple when it came to Nyx. There was a familiar look of confusion, before Nyx caught his hands and held them in his own. Before he could try another approach. 

“The beads just point out who I am and where I’m from, little star. Nothing special.”

Noctis offered a wry look, a familiar scoff at the assessment, at the idea itself. And Nyx smiled. 

“Shut up,” the Glaive undid one of his braids enough to pull a simple little bead from it. One that was a blue so deep is could have been black. One that had little nicks and scuffs across its surface but still caught the light in the room and Noctis could see that it was carved from a single stone rather than a wood or plastic or synthetic. “Stay still.”

Nyx worked quickly to tie the bead into the prince’s hair, right behind his ear. There was no braid to secure it, but Nyx tied a quick little knot instead, grinning at the questioning look the whole thing earned him. 

“This is an Ulric bead,” Nyx tugged at the finished product in the same manner Noctis had tugged on his own hair; “it’ll tell people that you’re part of my clan now. If you want.”

Noctis had spent years figuring out ways to express wants and demands— most less subtle than others, and far less polite than when Ignis translated for him. He had plenty of ways that— he knew— made him look like a brat, just making clear demands because people refused to pay attention to him unless he was clear. He had small signs for when he wanted affection or more with Nyx, a flurry of signs and expressions for when he wanted something tangible and immediate. 

But for this… This was an introduction into a whole different language Noctis didn’t realise how much he had wanted. How much he had wanted to communicate with Nyx on a level the Glaive understood; in a language he was fluent in. Noctis hadn’t realised that he had learnt next to nothing about the silent cues shared between some of the Glaives and most of the people living in the overcrowded little district deep beneath the city’s skin.

Noctis pulled Nyx close with firm hands on the Glaive’s shoulders, kissing his lover.


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn’t unusual to see Noctis out and about in Insomnia most days. It had always been easy to for him to slip through crowds and plazas and away from the gleaming towers of the Citadel even when he was being shadowed by his faithful friends. To find him in the crowded streets and along the avenues, coming from arcades and shops Nyx could never dream of even window shopping in. Nyx had grown used to seeing Noctis at the little plaza with its potted, planned trees and flowers and it’s open seating just outside of the Kingsglaive headquarters. He had grown used to also seeing the bulk of the Amicitia kid nearby, or the seemingly-ever present Ignis at his side. The little royal group exhausted or energised from their training with the Captain, their tests with the Captains of both Glaive and Guards.

“No army today, little king?”

Noctis sat on the monument to his ancestor, legs crossed and straw from a cold drink idle between his lips. He sat with his phone out and occupying one hand, the crowd of people coming and going from the streets and offices and shops oblivious to the prince in their midst. Nyx would have missed him if it weren’t for the warning through text he received as he left. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket before Noctis even looked up to acknowledge him. But Nyx could see the little smirk already teasing the prince’s lips. 

_Aren’t you basically an army, hero?_

“Oh, are we doing this now? Okay,” Nyx was used to Noctis flitting between modes of communication. There were times when the movements of his hands would draw attention, when the exaggerated looks that came naturally now— the expressions to drive home tone and meaning and intent— would seem out of place in the stiffness of the Lucian public. But a young man on a phone… Nyx kept his at the ready. “What brought this on?”

_I just wanted to get out for a bit. Everyone else is busy._

“Busy?” Nyx settled against the monument where Noctis sat, not quite able to bring himself up to sit on the engraved slab of marble. “Aren’t you their job?”

_Everyone needs a day off eventually. Let’s get dinner._

Nyx knew how this would look to anyone who didn’t recognise Noctis— which was apparently a lot of people in the city if they weren’t expecting a public appearance. He knew that it just looked like the young man was ignoring the world, fiddling with his phone, incapable of paying attention to the very same world ignoring him. He knew that there were half a dozen nobles in the Citadel who had condemned the prince’s reliance on his phone before, who had condemned it as a crutch to the prince’s silence. 

As if Noctis had wilfully chosen to lose his voice.

As if the new phones and trinkets and toys could be blamed for the show of weakness, though Nyx had participated in the training exercises that had been guided by the prince’s personal texting service. He knew that Noct could command an army through the innocent little device in his hands. 

“Did you give them the day off just to go on a date?”

_I was thinking we could go to that skewer place you like._

The smirk was all the answer Nyx needed. The little gleam of mischief beneath the casual surface of the prince’s demeanour. The promise that, at the very least, some planning had gone into the whole thing well before Noctis sent out that first text demanding that they meet out here. He knew the way the prince sat, settled so easily on a monument to his own lineage— as if tempting the idea of ‘The Fierce’ to disown him for the perceived slight in his own boldness. 

“Fine, but I’m not paying, you little menace.”


	4. Chapter 4

Some days the silence was deafening. The world, muted by grief and the weight of the kingdom, fell away until there was nothing to fill the void left behind. Some days, Nyx wanted to claw at his own skin in frustration, his chest fit to burst if he didn’t run or work off the energy that refused to be consumed by his grief and guilt. The soft offers to talk, to compartmentalise, to try to impose logic and rational, linear thought on the war, just grated on his last nerve. 

They had lost almost all of the newest recruits in the last tour of the siege lines. The Nifs had cut them down without any effort as the weakest ones froze up and the strongest charged ahead. The beasts— driven mad by Nif training and torment and taming— slaughtered most of the recruits who survived the first wave. And the King’s magic did the rest. Nyx had tried to lead them— forced some towards the better guidance from Luche, to the protection of Libertus— and failed. 

He had watched, from behind the protective shields Libertus had managed to force up, as the kid he had spent weeks training collapsed under the strain of the magic in battle. He had watched as this kid barely older than Noctis, from Luche’s hometown staggered and stopped as the Lucian magic tore through him in the stress. 

Some days, the silence of his little apartment was deafening. And all he could hear were echoes of the battlefield. 

He had asked Noctis once why he didn’t speak. Only once. When Ignis wasn’t hovering over them with a stern look for him. 

He had asked if the prince had tried, and saw the hurt in Noctis’ eyes. Before some excuse was made and Nyx learnt that it was better not to press, Ignis had explained that Noctis had been subjected to the best therapists, speech and otherwise, from across Eos when he started refusing to speak. Ignis explained that he remembered the tentative, fearful admissions from Noctis through childish notes and carefully constructed gestures and signs that the prince had thought his voice was just lost in the noise of the world around him. That the cacophony of pain and fear and pleading from Tenebrae had ripped out the last shreds of patience Noctis once had to try adding his voice to the rest of the noise that echoed through him. 

Nyx hadn’t understood until he returned home from a tour— after hours of ‘you need to talk about it’ and reports he didn’t want to work through— and all he could focus on was the echoing please of that dying kid from Luche’s hometown who was barely older than Noctis. 

The shattered shock of ballistics and fire and missiles had drowned out the kid at the time. The roar of the beasts and mechanical thrum and crash of the Nif technology had rattled him to his core just as much as it shook the ground around him. The shouts and screams of Glaives— issuing orders, checking on the fallen, looking for the scattered remnants of the unit after the attack— were lost among the mechanical wheeze of the dying MTs around him. He hadn’t even heard the kid at first. 

Not until it was quiet and he was being pulled home behind the lines and into the safety of the Wall. 

Then the kid’s gasping, shocked voice echoed through his head. It jumbled with Selena’s last words to him. It was lost in the rest of the noise until Nyx could only sit there and listen. 

Noctis was waiting for him at his apartment when he got home one day. After he had been out trying to walk off the remnants of the war, trying to dull the noise enough to think and speak, and stop worrying his friends. 

The silence in the calm that finally settled over him had terrified him. 

Noctis waited, cross-legged on the tiny bed shoved into the little nook of the apartment, beneath the small window with it’s streaming light from the street. His phone in hand and some game chiming from the tiny speakers, filling the quiet apartment as Nyx walked in and paused. 

He would have greeted Noctis before. Would have smiled and teased him— asked where he had even got a key, or if he had eaten yet. He would have, under normal circumstances, broken the silence first between them, and pretended that everything was normal and okay again. That it was just another tour and he’d be held back next round to train the next group on new recruits. He wouldn’t talk about the war itself, but he would fill the night with stories of adventures and heroics and then stories from home. 

But today, the silence was deafening, and he had only managed to just quiet the boy’s dying pleas and gasps, and Selena’s last words, and his family’s loss. He had only just managed to quiet the chaos that echoed though him and threatened to return if he opened his mouth. If he opened the floodgates and tried to speak. 

He had even opened his mouth to greet Noctis, and saw the smile from the prince turn to confusion and understanding. He had been about to break the silence, to open up that floodgate, and the world froze around him. A block in place to remind him how colossally bad an idea it was to summon back everything he had only just managed to banish. 

Nyx clung to Noctis instead; he held his lover close and saw the understanding in those pained blue eyes. He wondered just how much Noctis had managed to quiet when he was only eight. When he was being rushed from a warzone and watching his friends and healers fall to the flames of the Nif onslaughts. He wondered if Noctis heard the same kind of please and screams and mechanical ghosts Nyx did. 

“I’m okay.”

It was choked out past a sob as Nyx held Noctis close in the quiet of the apartment. As he remembered that he had always promised to be strong enough for them both. To bear that strength for them both. “I’ll be okay.”


	5. Chapter 5

The notes had started long before any other form of communication was used between them. Long before Nyx could keep up with the seemingly frantic flurry of gestures and signs that Noctis was most comfortable with, and long before Nyx learnt how to read the pointed looks and exaggerated expressions that conveyed Noctis’ tone and meaning. They came when Nyx was still relying heavily on Ignis’ translations for the prince, well aware that he was missing something in the curt, scripted replies. 

Because Ignis was good at what he did. He understood that he was there to translate, not interpret. Tone and importance were given by Noctis himself, even if he was just a scared kid. 

The notes started when Ignis was in school. Or away for a test or exam for a few hours. 

Or in the middle of the night, when Ignis’ rooms were tightly shut off and the kid sound asleep while Nyx stood guard as ordered. He heard the whimpering first, the breathless sob second. He had spent that first night with a scared prince, confused as the boy made frantic gestures when he offered to find someone better suited to helping than he was. More confused when the boy just clung to him instead. 

The first note came in the morning, pressed into his hands as Ignis walked with the prince to breakfast. The childish, quick scrawl of ‘thank you’ hidden beneath the folds of some colourful scrap from the prince’s desk. 

More came later. 

Pieces here and there, pressed into his hand, pinned to his uniform coat with a cheeky grin while he stood at attention, slipped into his pocket. And then tucked into the edge of the corkboard on his table, in place of a bookmark in whatever book he had been reading and left unattended. And once, most recently, scribbled in dripping letters on a foggy bathroom mirror as Noct slipped from the shower first. 

He wanted to point out that he was better at understanding Noctis now. That he understood his sign language more, and could catch the pointed looks and expressions. He wanted to remind Noctis that he was becoming fluent quickly, in ways and for reasons that Ignis never really could. 

But he liked the notes too much to stop them. 

He liked finding the little scrap of paper beneath the coffee mugs in the morning— tucked into his favourite mug as Noctis slumbered on. He liked being able to read the silly little message scribbled there, as the signs outside his window dimmed beneath the rising sun. He liked rushing out the door with nothing more than a peck to his lover’s cheek and trusting that Noctis would handle locking up, only to find the little page neatly folded in his uniform pocket as he took a moment to breathe on the steps of the Kingsglaive headquarters. 

The notes were all kept, more often than not. Some finding their way to his corkboard, pinned with honour beneath the last birthday letter from Selena. Others were tucked away safely with cards and letter from home. 

There were mornings, like this morning, where he saw Noctis’ smile as he read the letter at the table with his coffee. Where he saw Noctis’ watching him, relaxed and warm in the bed, and too comfortable to come for his own cooling coffee. When the quiet around them was warm and light, and Nyx could only watch as Noctis stretched and moved and joined him at the table. 

The little note, scribbled out in the prince’s careful handwriting was like a hundred others that had been shared between them. It settled on the table as easily as Noctis settled in his lap, attention drawn away from the coffee as Nyx smiled up to Noctis instead. 

“I’ll come back, little star,” the words were whispered in the morning light, pressed against Noctis’ throat with a kiss. The note echoed the same sentiment that Noctis had slipped into his hands a hundred times before— a silent plea for a promise Nyx would always happily give him. “I’ll come back to you.”

The next morning would be spent on the front lines, the little note tucked away safely in the inside pocket of his uniform. It would be folded close to whatever little gift Noct could hide in there later, to ward off harm with a touch of royal magic. 

They had yet to work out any signs between them for this. For the well wishes and the promises. They hadn’t worked out any ways to tease out the same promises yet, through eager looks or soft touches. 

The notes worked best. 

_Come home, hero._


	6. Chapter 6

The first signs Nyx learnt from Noctis were commands. Orders that Nyx would obey with a a cheeky smirk and an exaggerated bow. They were quick gestures befitting a prince— “you,” “here,” “come,” “go.” 

Simple gestures that were accompanied by Ignis stepping in to relay a message, or for a note to be passed along— already addressed to the recipient Nyx needed to hunt down. Quick gestures and movements that seemed out of place for the prince after whatever flurry he had just used to address his closest companion. Simple commands to issue to a Glaive on duty turned messenger. 

“It’s just part of the job, sometimes,” Nyx told Libertus over drinks. When they had both been summoned by the young silent prince to run a message to the king. Libertus had grumbled the entire time, had bowed as trained and passed the message along— a neatly folded paper that had been pressed into his hand while Ignis relayed the instruction to deliver it to the King. Libertus had stayed professional until they were out of sight and hearing. “It doesn’t matter.”

Nyx knew that it did matter. 

He had been standing guard when the king entered the more intimate dining room later that day, the folded note still peeking out of the pocket it had been held in all afternoon. A tiny detail of dishevelment that Regis refused to part with. He had been standing guard when he saw the way Noctis smiled to his father— expressions open and trusting and emotive in a more eager form of communication— and the way Regis smiled back. He had seen the way the food Ignis was still setting out in careful portions and offerings was ignored for the moment while king and prince became father and son. 

The noise in the room was all one sided. The king happy to watch the flurry of gestures from his son, examine the expressions, and assess the delicate little patterns created and taught to communicate. Nyx saw the kings eyes wander out of habit, miss the smallest details he had to ask for again, and he saw the laughter in the father’s eyes at the pout his inattention earned him. Ignis’ own voice chimed in to answer some questions— the chef responding to specific queries the prince wouldn’t know. Or couldn’t express yet. 

He watched, stiff and tall in his uniform, Libertus long gone for the day, as Noctis summoned his father to the table with a quick command. And watched as Regis gladly responded. 

He recognised the commands for “sit” and “eat” and “join”, all which had the king responding. He learnt the new signs created during the day— “lunch” and “dinner” and “drinks”. “Soup” was favoured over “salad”— to Ignis’ frustration— and the main course presented needed no request or introduction. He learnt through observation the way Noctis was learning to spell things with his hands— more quick movements that Regis mimicked. He watched the lessons across the table as Noctis laughed silently as his father’s fumbled attempts to speak his language. 

“He has actual servants to deliver those stupid notes,” Libertus complained over drinks and bad food late into the night. While Nyx just smiled and refused to give the argument any ground or support. “Like that kid that’s always with him. What the hell does it even matter?”

Neither of them ever read the notes. They never peeked or broke the delicate little seals that eventually became part of it. But Nyx knew that they were important. Every note that left the prince’s rooms was carefully tucked into the king’s pocket, after Regis read it. Libertus may have missed it each time, but Nyx liked the small smile it brought out in the king. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Nyx would tell Libertus to appease him. To calm him down while Crowe berated them both for talking about work after hours. 

Nyx knew it mattered. 

He had seen the careful plans laid out before the notes were passed on to him and the commands were issued. He watched as Noct fretted over each one, and Ignis reviewed schedules and times and tried to offer reassurance. He had seen the disruption the little notes, passed from son to father, caused throughout the day. And the way Noctis sometimes delayed sending them until an event or meeting was well over and done with. 

He knew they were little invitations. They had to be. To dinner, to lessons, to an hour stolen away from the kingdom in a son’s selfish desire. Nyx knew that they had to be little appointments, little requests. This that had the Shield rolling his eyes from beside the throne, but offering a fond smile as he passed the note on to the king himself. 

The first signs Nyx mastered were the letters for his own name. It had been a curiosity, and he started to recognise when Noctis was talking about him. When he was standing guard over their little moments of stolen peace and the king’s eyes would look him over with more than just a cursory glance. He could see his name in the prince’s hands— spelt out in simple gestures— and see the king’s more diplomatic responses through signs of his own as the years progressed, as lessons progressed. 

He learnt that Noctis had replaced spelling out his name with a sign later, and was lost in the conversation as he observed for a short time. The sign mimicked a smirk— his smirk, Ignis explained later— because Noctis liked it. Just a quick movement of Noctis’ hands over his mouth— a lopsided version of the “smile” sign that Noctis rarely used. Nyx decided that he liked it. 

“Yeah,” Libertus would agree over drinks deep in the depths of the city, well out of sight of the Citadel; “It doesn’t matter.”

Nyx knew that the first commands he was meant to know— in any capacity— were always to serve the throne and royals. “Come” and “here” and “go” were all simple gestures meant to convey an urgency or placement in hierarchy. Some lifted right from the military standard. He had those drilled into him on a daily basis. 

The first signs he learnt because he wanted to had made Regis laugh and Noctis blush over their shared little dinners. 

He had been watching their conversation about him, had seen Noctis’ little blush at whatever Regis responded back. Had seen Regis’ clear appraisal of him. And broke rank only to offer a quick bow and quiet, “If I may, your Majesty?” (Much to Ignis’ horror).

He moved his own hands carefully, slower than either royal did, and offered his smirk that Noctis liked enough to use as his name.

He didn’t know how to phrase a question yet. Or what the polite versions were. But he knew the simple pieces and those would be corrected soon enough as the king welcomed him into the quick lessons and forgave his intrusion into the family time they had. 

“Nyx. Join. Meal.”


	7. Chapter 7

When the silent little prince was first brought to the Glaives to train in his royal magics, there was a lot of talk and tutting spread through the elaborate facilities afforded to the Glaive recruits. There were rumours that it was all for show, that the King was absent from the decision— because what father would risk a child who couldn't tell someone when to stop, or when something hurt. There was gossip floating through the halls and offices and occupied barracks like a miasma of doubt seeping through anyone who would listen: it was all for show. 

The gossip that curled past the lips of every doubtful dissenter in the ranks all worried at the same points. All missed the same obvious information presented to them. It was all talk of fragility and miscommunications; doubts that the prince was even capable of taking orders. Or reacting to them as anything other than some little brat that had been sheltered away. 

After all, the practical training was coming late. Nineteen years late. 

“Alright, your highness,” volunteers for the training grounds had been scarce. Libertus and Nyx the only ones left when the names were carefully crossed off. “Let’s see what you got.”

Nyx knew all the signs Noctis used. He had hours sat with the little firebrand working out the codes and gestures and expressions. He knew what to look for, and he was strong enough to pull Libertus away if needed. So he sat on the sidelines with a hawkish focus on the young man facing off against his best friend. Namesake smirk in place. “Give him hell, little prince!”

Libertus had an advantage over the other Glaives certified to train recruits. He had worked with children who had survived the war that drove them into the shelter of the Wall. He had seen trauma at its worst, and had seen children in near catatonic states of silence dragged into community centres and overcrowded refugee centres across the great city. 

Facing off with the silent prince in the dusts of the training yards, Libertus knew where Noctis was coming from. Nyx knew that his friend could see the prince’s personality in his eyes, in the way the training stances were assumed, in the ease of shoulders and the favouring of old wounds that were a hard habit to break. Nyx knew, if given the right chance, his friend’s compassion could extend to the wounded prince. 

They had worked out a sign to stop the training when Libertus couldn’t read Noctis’ expressions and Nyx was too far away to intervene. One tap to Libertus would ease off the roughhousing; two to immediately stop. 

Nyx held his breath each time he saw Noctis’ hands move. With each tap out, to ease or escape, he rushed to check that there wasn't anything more serious that he needed to worry over. He knelt, an arm on Noctis’ back as the magic dissipated around them, asking all the questions he would as the recruits whose shields had failed them. Only his eyes would flit from expression to hands and back as Noctis responded with the only voice he knew. 

And each new bout would have Libertus doing the same. 

The theory of the magic had been taught in the safety of the Citadel. The books and pages and practice in crafting and molding the elements to his wishes had been taught in the comforts of more familiar training rooms. Where the magic could be absorbed into the hallowed halls of the Citadel itself, dispersed across the training rooms with nary a mark. 

Here, Noctis doubled over on scorched earth, shaking off the shock of low-level spells while the remnants crackled around him. Here, there was a greater risk to them all. There was the chance that help would be slower, that the medics manning the barracks inside would not be as disciplined as the ones who stood on duty in the Citadel when the prince was training. 

Libertus got quieter as things progressed, as he assessed Noctis’ strengths and the talents that they needed to test before they could teach to. Under normal circumstances, Nyx knew that Libertus would be barking out praises and laughing along with the recruits. He knew that Libertus’ jovial voice and encouragements could fill the small arena they had claimed, and that the steady streams of checks and corrections would balance out the scrapes and scuffs as the magic dispersed around them. 

Nyx realised that he was too focused on Noctis during the training. That he had expected his friend to carry on as normal. That Libertus would fill the silence left in the prince’s wake. 

Down in the dusts, as Noctis regained his breath and his feet, Libertus gave him a thumbs up and a questioning look. Nyx realised then that he had forgotten his friend’s other work— as Noctis offered a smile and nod and returned the gesture. He had forgotten that Libertus was used to working with people who had suffered through their own traumas, who had fallen silent the same way the prince had, if only for a shorter time. 

He had forgotten his friend’s capacity for compassion. And his training outside if the Glaives. 

When it was done, and Nyx was left cleaning things up, he saw the flurry of gestures between Libertus and Noctis while they waited for the prince’s handlers to pick him up. He heard Libertus laugh as Noctis’ showed off Nyx’s name, and he saw the few familiar gestures as Libertus explained that he volunteered with others— those hurt in war, deafened by it and silenced by it. 

Nyx saw a question pass between them, and Noctis sign that he would think about it. And he saw the little surprise from Libertus at the sincerity in the response. 

“What was that about?” He could ask later, over drinks and food, and expecting a rant about a spoilt brat. “What you were asking his highness?”

“Nothing, hero.”

It was weeks later that there was a public appearance from the prince at the community centre where Libertus volunteered. Weeks of silence on the matter before the visit surprised them all. Where Noctis collected stories told through notes and gestures from other people to bring back to his father’s council and budget meetings.


	8. Chapter 8

There were limitations with the official sign language in the kingdom. There were identifiable letters and concepts and small details that could be presented and methods to get the communication across; but there were limitations. At times, writing out notes was easier for Noctis. Reverting back to more universal gestures— polite or not— was easier, particularly when dealing with the haughty members of the King’s Council who had all deemed him a liability for his command of his father’s attention. There were methods and gestures that could make him appear aloof or despondent, antisocial in his withdrawal from the kingdom’s accepted language. 

He used the language when with others outside the home— the charity work taken aside from the princely duties he was allowed, the meetings and activities that dragged him out to the public eye where all attention was on his interpreter rather than himself. Even though he was speaking the language everyone expected him to know. And they would still talk about him as if he was deaf rather than mute.

There was the military sign language that was direct and drilled into every Guard and Glaive to walk through the gates. Abrupt commands used on parades and inspections, practised and drilled as much into the prince in the event that he ever need to command an army. Never meant to be used. They were for work, and not meant to compliment or act with the open expressions meant to convey tone and understanding. 

Noctis liked that Nyx smiled when he used the strict, stiff words. He liked the clever little smirk from his Glaive as he beckoned Nyx close or to a stop; as he directed Nyx to kneel at the edge of their bed, that smirk fully in place and the challenge in arctic eyes. 

And then there was the “home” language.

Noctis had created this before he knew what it was. Before he started learning the other languages meant to acclimatise him back into the world that didn’t make the same effort. 

The name for his father came from tracing the line of his crown with small hands, when the only noises that could leave his lips were panicked whimpers drawn from the depths of nightmares. While his father was quick to rush to his side, to hold him, to whisper reassurances that the world was safe, even though Noctis knew it was a lie. Noctis remembered that closeness fondly, stealing the crown from his father with a smile and playing with it while the adults around them spoke in the gardens of Tenebrae. He had kept the lines of the silver curl that rested in place over his father’s ear as a name, smiling with the traced line regardless of his age. Regardless of how duty and work had taken his father away from those quiet moments they had shared. 

Ignis knew the name intimately. He knew that, when Noct was little and distressed, the sign would have him running through the halls to find the king, all trained decorum forgotten in his panic to help his prince. 

Ignis also knew that his own signed name came about the same way, as they learnt the official Lucian Sign Language together from books and videos and a tutor who met them in a Citadel conference room twice a week after other lessons were done. Noctis had the habit of stealing Ignis’ glasses when bored between lessons, and like the crown, tracing the specific, familiar lines. They had both been delighted by learning that the sign was already a common one, that the shape of glasses was simple and universal, and Noctis had declared it to be Ignis’ name. 

Though he alternated between “glasses” and “notebook” on a seeming whim, amused by Ignis’ insistence that he would need something more dignified for public matters. 

Noctis had learnt the signs for “king” from the Glaives, “shield” and “defend” from his lessons, and had made up his own for Gladiolus. Hus friend had never achieved the same fluency as Ignis, had never sat down to learn the details and nuances that were needed to speak the second language. But he picked up the gist of what Noctis said, what his expressions relayed and the more common gestures that usually resulted in brotherly spats and Ignis dragged in despite them both. At first Gladio was just a “shield”, like Clarus. Just a station and a quick movement that seemed out of place in the flow of conversation. Then he was a shield with a letter G, evolved to something more personal. 

By the time they were teenagers— when Noctis had been pushed back from a scuffle he should not have been near, shoved aside with the order to get away from a training game gone awry— Gladio had learnt his new name while in hospital. He understood “defend”, he knew his letter. And he scoffed at Noctis for choosing that, even as he pulled his friend close in relief that they were both okay. As he reassured Noctis that he didn’t hold the accident against him; dispelling guilt with a grin and a thumbs up before the chaos of the hospital descended on them both. 

The names were always personal things. They were private creations and concoctions, put together by Noctis as he got to know people he cared about. Prompto had only just started getting used to recognising the letters in his name, blurring together as his friend found ways to introduce him when his own speech failed him in the presence of the king. 

Prompt had only started to learn the basics, filling the silence between them with chatter and one-sided conversation, responding easily to Noctis’ notes and gestures and language. He had only just started to get used to seeing his name blur in the space between Noctis’ hands before there was a new sign he didn’t know. He recognised the letter in one hand, raised to Noctis’ eye while his other mimicked the click of the camera Prompto had taken to carrying around. He had been confused when Ignis rolled his eyes and explained the name, while Noctis beamed— the muted noise of surprise the only sound Prompto had ever really heard leaving Noctis’ lips as he tackled his friend in his excitement. 

He spent the next few hours mastering his own name, just for the novelty of it. 

Noctis had enjoyed coming up with the names. 

He had sat with Nyx hours after they finally found that words were not always needed between them, tracing the line of Nyx’s lips with a light touch just as he had once traced the comforting curl of his father’s crown. They had sat together, face to face as Nyx mimicked the careful gestures, slowed down to a teaching speed. Their hands between them, fingers brushing as Noctis directed and Nyx followed, their heads bent close together. 

Noctis smiled as their foreheads touched in the stillness of a quiet room, showing off the names he created in the peace between them. Beaming as Nyx worked his way through the third language— the fourth, if the military talk was considered— he wanted to learn for the sake of his adopted home. For Noctis. 

“Who else?” Nyx would ask, voice barely above a whisper. Noctis would laugh, but Nyx preserved the stillness between them, around them, coiled around them against the noise of the city beyond the thin walls of the tiny apartment buried deep in the grand city. 

Noctis would show him the names, carefully and slowly. The heartbeat for Libertus, the half-finished gesture of “sister” for Crowe, the stiff taps of “captain” and the letter for Drautos… The smirk that he was so fond of tracing for Nyx himself. Until Nyx would catch his hands with a smile; “I already know that one, little prince. I like that one.”


	9. Chapter 9

Sometimes, the words filled his head— the languages filled every last space until Nyx forgot what language he was meant to be speaking. There was the Galahdian from his homeland— his mother tongue, his history— that always came first, that always rested within easy grasp. There was the Lucian, taught when he was a child by the schools and his parents, but so rarely used until needed— until his life was upheaved and he was thrown into a war and a city he was not prepared for. There was the language of the Lucian military— barked orders and stiff gestures, the bars and markings of ranks, the decorations awarded, the commands that could be challenged, the commands that could not. There were hidden languages in tone and movement, eyes and lips, the slump of shoulders, the pace of a walk, the ducking of a head, the movement of a leg. 

He never noticed how many words there were before meeting Noctis. Before learning how the silent prince conversed. 

He never noticed how much he observed and expected and reacted to, until he watched Noctis’ features for tone and his hands for the words. 

It was the commands he knew the best. The orders snapped out in quick gestures when they needed quiet on a mission. When a whisper could mean their death. 

He understood “kneel” by the movement of Noctis’ hands— the imitation of bent legs falling to a floor, the simulated impact Nyx could feel before he followed the instruction. As he followed in the same timing as Noctis’ eyes tracked him. As Noctis’ hands moved and the impact could reverberate up his spine to snap his attention to the confident lover shifting closer. 

The focus was a balm at times. The singular way his world narrowed to Noctis, as he knelt before his prince at the edge of his own bed. As the world fell away when Noctis shifted closer to lift his face for a kiss. As hands trailed up his arms and settled on his shoulders, as the ghosting touch on his throat grew stronger at his jaw, and lips followed the careful line traced by a stroking thumb. 

There were the shortened signs kept between them that held Nyx’s attention, that kept him from wandering back into the world outside of the little peace Noctis had constructed for them. The careful urgency in Noctis’ order to come closer, the soothing still that overcame when ordered to calm down, the ease as Noctis ordered him to be still, to stay, to wait. As he left Nyx on the bed, focus still narrowed on the quiet steps and the distance Noctis put between him in a sudden quest for water, for a snack, for something that took him away from their bed for too long. 

And the peace that returned with him. 

There were words that were held between them, but didn’t threaten to overtake his attention like the other languages he knew. There was an understanding as Noctis closed his eyes with a featherlight touch and kiss, and the wry look and sly smirk that greeted him when he peeked as his lover moved over him. There was a stern press to his wrists, his arms, the order to stay that couldn’t be conveyed otherwise, unless Noctis put some distance between them. 

And Nyx didn’t want that distance. 

There was the trace of lips, and smile, and the challenge as he teased Noctis by flirting with disobedience. Just to see how the prince would make him squirm in admonishment. Just to see how Noctis would reward him. 

And the world would narrow further. To the touch of hands and the press of warmth, of a mouth around him, of the tickle of hair, of the softness of his bed beneath the heat of the sheets. 

Noctis would kiss teeth-bruised lips later, and smile as Nyx hummed his pleasure between them. He would forget all the words he knew in that peace, as Noctis filled his mind instead and tied his tongue in knots. 

He learnt the signs for bruise in the way Noctis admired the marks left, and laughed at the apologetic look. He learnt the way the colours were meant to be conveyed as Noctis traced those bruises and Nyx named the colours for Noctis to sign. He learnt the words in Noctis’ own languages for “love” and “dear” and “heart”, because the official signs were too clinical and rehearsed, and Noctis was anything but. 

When the air cooled between them, and the blankets changed— just because Nyx could, when he could move again— Nyx let the words come back slowly. He let Noctis hear something else of Galahdian other than breathless pleading and praises, slipping past the Lucian barriers that had been drilled into place until the clever Lucian prince with his wicked mouth and bold hands broke them down. 

But they never returned in the rush he expected. Like the world crashing back through the moment of peace they had built in the darkness and greys of the small apartment with the neon ravines outside the carefully curtained windows. The words trickled back, eased in with kisses and curious looks, and hands tracing them on his chest between his scars. Until they filled the space around where Noctis had settled. 

Sometimes, in the stillness of the evening, Nyx would teach Noctis his language. Would let the comforts of his mother tongue slip between them the same way Noctis’ hands did, and he would just talk. There were stories as the words returned, promises made in the depths of the uncaring city with its compassionate prince, wrapped around them in languages not meant to be shared with the world at large.


End file.
